Frozen & Burning
by Tutankhamun
Summary: Set during The Great Game. When is a flatmate not a flatmate? When he doesn't exist. Enjoy!
1. Frozen

**Frozen/Burning**

_by Tutankhamun_

* * *

For a few brief seconds the world stood still.

For an instant, the furiously calculating, figuring, thinking, planning, analyzing, comprehending, deducing machine that was Sherlock Holmes' brain stuttered and came to an abrupt halt. And all because of one word:

"Evening."

Head full of nothing but white noise and echoes, he froze, poised with one hand outstretched. The missile plans—the endgame, he was sure, of this entire charade—were forgotten in slim, pale fingers. Numb.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock."

His brain gave a feeble kick. Even though the words formed a query, the voice speaking those words was devoid of any emotion, inflection, or curiosity. The sentence, therefore, was not a question, but a statement. Interesting. But chilling was the fact that this voice was not supposed to be flat and lifeless. It was meant to brim over with emotion and feeling. It was supposed to be vibrant and bursting with affection, frustration, humor, compassion, annoyance, trust, interest, certainty, acceptance, _admiration_, and a million other nuances. This voice did not belong to…

"John." The name, the intimately familiar name, left his mouth as a painful whisper; a plea: let this not be real, _please John_, please let none of this be real. But all he could say was, "What the hell?"

No response, no flicker of recognition in the tawny eyes he'd come to know—eyes he thought he knew. How could he have been so blind? The man he lived with, the Army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and a thirst for danger that matched his own…the man in front of him was not that man.

"Bet you never saw this coming."

Faced with this conundrum—_when is your flatmate not your flatmate?_—Sherlock could feel his brain leap and sizzle as neurons fired and data was collected, collated, analyzed, and scrutinized. When is your flatmate not your flatmate? When he is not who he says he is. When he is not who you deduced he is. When he is lying. When he is hiding his identity. Why would he lie or otherwise hide his identity? Why the elaborate performance? Why such an all-encompassing act? To deceive me. To lull me into false sense of security. To gain the upper hand. Who wants to hurt me? Who wants to best me? Who wants my attention?

Moriarty.

Therefore, John Watson is Moriarty. Or, rather, Moriarty pretended to be—invented!—John Watson. John Watson never existed. Or perhaps a John Watson, Army doctor, did exist once, but he was not the man Sherlock knew. Thought he knew. The real John Watson, if he ever existed, was probably dead somewhere, in order to make Moriarty's version more believable. The man in front of him was an illusion. He didn't exist. John didn't exist. _John didn't exist._

In a daze Sherlock took a few steps towards the man he would always think of as John Watson.

John—Moriarty—fumbled with his coat. "What…would you like me…to make him say…next."

And all at once Sherlock's world froze again.

* * *

**R & R!**


	2. Burning

**Frozen/Burning**

_by Tutankhamun_

* * *

_And all at once Sherlock's world froze again._

No, it wasn't freezing, it was _burning_. Sherlock was on fire, the fierce knowledge that John—his John!—was real burned through his veins like every drug he'd ever taken. John was real! John was alive! John was a hostage. His eyes took in the bomb strapped to his flatmate's chest, the sniper lasers, the wire in John's ear. The voice of Moriarty, whispering lies and taunts and…

"Gottle o' geer. Gottle o' geer. Gott—"

"OK stop it," Sherlock commanded, irritation twitching inside him. He was used to John saying stupid things (although sometimes he said very good things, too, like _brilliant_ and _fantastic_), but for Moriarty to use him in such a childish way, to gloat and taunt when John was in danger—perhaps more than they could handle? no, of course not, never, not them!—was simply intolerable. The Game, such as it was, was no longer fun.

"Nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him."

Sherlock wasn't interested, didn't care what Moriarty thought of his meeting place, didn't care about Carl's murder. His mind, ever alert, took note of the fact that Moriarty liked to brag, liked to tease, liked to talk, but the majority of his focus was on figuring out where the snipers were located and whether or not John was unharmed.

"I can stop John Watson, too…Stop his heart."

Five pips, four pips, three pips, two pips, John. The last pip. None of the others had mattered, not really. Not their lives, not the terror they must have felt, not even their deaths. All that had mattered was the _challenge_. The Game. But that was before John had become an unwilling player. Good John, soft, emotional John didn't belong in the Game. Sherlock was furious.

"Who are you?" he demanded, true anger seeping into his voice. His eyes darted around the room, trying to locate Moriarty who was, he was certain, somewhere nearby pulling the strings.

A long moment passed, and then an unnaturally high-pitched, though distinctly male, voice responded. "I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

Sherlock frowned. Moriarty had given him his number? Every phone call he had received during the Game was from a blocked or private number—there was no way he could have contacted Moriarty that way. And while he knew that Moriarty observed his website, the only way he could get his attention would be with a public post, which was hardly acceptable since Lestrade and his team of idiots would also be privy to the conversation.

Besides, like he told John, he considered himself married to his work. He didn't simply _call_ the people who gave him their numbers (cocktail napkins, business cards, if he had kept them all he'd be able to fuel a bonfire for hours). If anything, he'd text. Maybe. And even then, he was so used to receiving propositions from random men and women during the course of his investigations that he tended to delete them immediately to conserve valuable space in his brain for more important data.

But was it possible that he had actually met Moriarty before? Was it possible that Moriarty had indeed given Sherlock his number, hoping to make the Game a little more…private? Intimate? Sherlock racked his brain, but couldn't recall any unusual recent interest or sexual overtures directed towards him. Did he not find the man—this novel criminal mastermind—relevant? Compelling? Arresting? Was he a master of disguise? Could he have outwitted Sherlock Holmes in a face-to-face encounter? Sherlock was disgusted with himself, but also thrilled and excited that, at last, here was a challenger—a true nemesis!—for him. And perhaps, just a little terrified that Moriarty seemed to be holding all the cards at the moment.

Sherlock was suddenly aware that he had not responded, and that the silence had lengthened. But he found himself with nothing to say. What could he say? _Sorry, I don't remember you at all. Isn't that a crack-up? You were able to pull the wool over the eyes of the only consulting detective in the world. Congratulations!_ That would hardly do. No, better to keep quiet, give nothing away, and wait for Moriarty to leave an opening…

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket? Or are you just pleased to see me?"

Since he was able to kidnap John so easily, Sherlock was certain that he knew every detail about 221b Baker Street and its occupants' habits. John's Army career was no secret, so being able to predict what firearm Sherlock was likely to be carrying was hardly impressive at all. Simple parlor trick, that. Less predictable was the continued sexual overtones. Sherlock knew Moriarty was intrigued by him, but hadn't seriously considered that he was _interested_ in him.

His mind, rather unhelpfully, recalled the fight he and John had after the third puzzle, when the old lady was killed. "You'll be very happy together," John had said bitterly of Sherlock and Moriarty. And Sherlock could see the logic behind it, how their codependent, parasitic relationship in which one distracted the other from tedious boredom via puzzles and high-stakes ultimatums gave them both immense satisfaction. Purpose. Perhaps even happiness...? Certainly he was feeling the effect of adrenaline and endorphins at the moment, but even a highly-functioning sociopath could deduce that what he was feeling wasn't happiness. But it was a pleasurable feeling, nonetheless._  
_

Perhaps Moriarty wasn't so far off the mark, then. In a way, Sherlock _was_ pleased to see him. Though that didn't stop him from pulling the Browning L9A1 out and aiming at Moriarty's smirking (ugly) face.

"Both."

* * *

Thank you so much to **Takaouto** for pointing out that Moriarty has John saying "Gottle o' gear" and not "Gottlegear." If anyone sees any glaring errors, please let me know! Thank you!

* * *

**R & R!**


End file.
